


The Waltz Trilogy

by brazenedMinstrel



Category: Homestuck, Overwatch (Video Game), Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Also because I wanted to write down these fics and I already composed the music, Dancing, F/F, Fic written to music, Fluff, I dunno what to tag they're just waltzing because waltzing is great, Lovers, waltz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 17:57:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16707298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brazenedMinstrel/pseuds/brazenedMinstrel
Summary: All three waltzes are here on soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/user-768938233/sets/the-waltz-trilogyPlease listen to them while reading the stories! I made the stories for the waltzes, not the other way around.One for the Rebel and the LawlessFor justice, for luckWith blinding flames and disarming passionTheirs is a dance of violenceOne for the Spider and the SpeedsterFor commitment, for determinationWith deadly elegance and charming witTheirs is a dance of captivationOne for the Witch and the WarchiefFor endurance, for revengeWith icy prowess and burning rageTheirs is a dance of defianceFeatured pairings: Redglare/Mindfang, Widowmaker/Tracer, Sylvanas/JainaMy tumblr: brazenedminstrel.tumblr.com/I wrote these three fics in about a week and they’re not beta-read. I’m also quite rusty since I haven’t written fanfic in months. That said, feel free to leave kudos and comments. Kudos and comments feed writers.





	1. Waltz of the Rebel and the Lawless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mizu7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizu7/gifts).



> One for the Rebel and the Lawless  
> For justice, for luck  
> With blinding flames and disarming passion  
> Theirs is a dance of violence
> 
>  
> 
> Redglare plays the piano guys. It muh headcanon. For the people who don’t know Homestuck: Redglare and Latula are what I use as name for the Neophyte. Mindfang and the Marquise are also the same character! 
> 
> And a pianola is one of those self-playing pianos.

As the former captain walks into the room, she glances at the little pianola in the corner. It appears to be untouched, lid still in place and backside closed with the key in the lock.  _ Ah, she hasn’t even touched it,  _ she thinks. A flicker of disappointment strikes her. Of course, her lover is busy, but too busy to enjoy a little music? 

 

She is writing, hunched over her desk, with those sharp shoulders and sharper horns. With rapid, measured strokes, her quill flies over the parchment. The tall pirate knows that it will soon be filled with wiry letters. She strides up to the desk and taps on the dark wooden surface. No reaction, not even a blink of her lover’s squinted teal eyes. 

 

‘My love-,’ she starts, ‘- you must not work yourself to death.’ 

 

Some concern has dripped into her voice, despite the neutral tone she wanted to speak in. Again, as many times before, she realizes just how much this woman stirs in her. Even if she merely clacks with her tongue in response to the concern and says: 

 

‘These letters must be finished before tomorrow or we will not hear the end of it.’ 

 

_ Latula, always determined to be precisely on time _ , the pirate thinks. She lays both hands, one grey skinned and one metal, on her lover’s shoulders and squeezes softly. 

 

‘The rebellion pushes you too hard. It cannot hurt to let them wait a single day.’ 

 

‘An army can be defeated in a single day, a castle can be razed it a single day.’ 

 

As the shorter woman puts down her pen, she turns to her lover and adds with defiance in her eyes: ‘Ships can be sunk in a single day, as you know, Marquise. And a single day is nothing to the highbloods, but everything to the rebellion.’ 

 

Dramatically, the pirate sighs. Latula, Redglare, only calls her Marquise if she is somewhat mad or annoyed at her. ‘Write them tonight then. I want to dance with you.’ 

 

It was what brought her to the spacious suite in the first place. Without waiting for Redglare’s answer, she gives her shoulders one more quick squeeze before walking to the pianola. She installs the sheet music, and as the instrument rattles, walks back to Redglare, who stares at her quizzically, but gets up from her chair. The first stiff notes of a waltz sound, and Mindfang taps the rhythm with her heavy boots, before sinking into a low reverence, offering her right hand. When it takes a few seconds before her partner reacts, she looks up with a half-lidded cobalt eye. 

 

She hears a small sigh, before a grisly cold hand takes hers. Despite the fact that Redglare’s upbringing was somewhat unbefitting of a lowblood, she can dance surprisingly well. As they slowly sway to the rhythm, she reaches for Mindfang’s eyepatch and removes the leather from her face. It hangs somewhat forlornly from her horn now, and the Marquise is quick to chuck it in the general direction of the desk. Her red, burnt left eye glints in the light, and the waltz speeds up. 

 

Two pairs of red boots click-clack over the floor, and Mindfang finds herself smiling. She boldly grabs Redglare’s waist with her left hand and whispers, her fanged mouth close to her lover’s ear: ‘I wish you would let me lift you.’ 

 

‘What are you waiting for?’ 

 

The dangerous, sharp-toothed smile of her lover tells her enough. Apparently, she is enjoying this way of unwinding too. Mindfang sweeps her off the ground, effortlessly lifting the tealblood in her arms. It is quite exhilarating, not unlike the rush of a chance taken right. She wonders if, for her lover, it feels like flying on her dragon. 

 

The pianola launches into a final rendition of the refrain, and they dance on, taking turns at making each other perform pirouettes. It is only when the waltz stops that they notice that they are both panting. Suddenly tired, Redglare leans against the Marquise’s shoulder, nose pressed up against the heavy blue coat. 

 

‘How about those letters now, love?’ 

 

Mindfang’s low, deep voice shakes her somewhat out of her daze. She quickly clears her throat, blushing teal on her cheeks. 

 

‘Don’t think that you’re rubbing your bad pirate habits off on me… but I suppose that they could wait. One more dance.’ 

 

It is not a question, it doesn’t need to be. The Marquise walks back to the pianola, for another song, another dance. 


	2. Waltz of the Spider and the Speedster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One for the Spider and the Speedster  
> For commitment, for determination  
> With deadly elegance and charming wit  
> Theirs is a dance of captivation
> 
>  
> 
> Sometime ago I got this image of Huntress Widowmaker with a long dark purple velvet cape stuck in my head and now I can’t get rid of it. Capes are cool, end of story. Following up that image, my brain immediately spat out “and add a rapier for extra coolness”.
> 
> And maybe it’s not completely clear, but Sombra’s a witch of some kind who has enchanted stuff inside the ballroom so that the music plays. I used cheap cop-outs for every “where tf do they get the music from” situation in single one of these fics, sorry…

‘Amé, are you here? You wanted me to be here, right?’ 

 

Lena takes a nervous breath, shuddering slightly. The ballroom in the Countess’ castle is empty and dark, but strangely not cold. Despite that, it’s not a place where Lena likes to be without the candles lifting the creepy atmosphere. She slinks further into the room, her light footsteps echo in the darkness. As her eyes get used to the lack of light, she looks around in the room. No sign of her lover. 

 

‘Luv, are you here? You’re kinda freaking me out with this gig.’ Her voice comes out shakier than she had hoped. She swallows thickly, and her hairs stand on end. Then a set of cold hands descends onto her shoulders and a voice murmurs: 

 

‘ _ Ma cheríe _ .’ 

 

Lena shrieks. Her arms flail around, hitting the tall woman behind her in the side. She wheels around to look into the golden eyes of her beloved, breathing heavily and jittering on her shaky legs while she collects her dignity. 

 

‘God, don’t… just don’t scare me like that! Give me a bloody warning next time!’ 

 

‘A bloody warning? Well if you insist,’ Amélie says, arching one eyebrow to her spellbound lover. ‘Wouldn’t that bring the evening to a rather quick end?’ 

 

Blushing, Lena stammers that she didn’t mean to say it like that. ‘Though y’know… I wouldn’t mind a quick bite either,’ she adds, turning even redder. 

 

Amélie merely grins, showing a bit more vampiric teeth. As she walks to the hearth to light a fire, Lena notices that she’s not just wearing her black and red outfit. Fastened on her left shoulder, hanging as a velvet shroud over her arm is a dark purple cape. The edges are adorned with silver thread, and as she whirls around to face Lena, it swirls elegantly over the floor. She has added another accessoire to her outfit as well: a sleek rapier, with an elegantly curling hilt. It hangs from her belt at her hip, swaying along with her every step. 

 

‘God I thought you couldn’t get any more beautiful.’ 

 

‘Then I suppose that dusting off this old  _ château _ was worth it then. I found some nice accessories,’ the Countess says. Her boots clack on the floor of the ballroom, and Lena feels the warmth of the fire sweep over her. She starts unbuttoning her waistcoat and discards her gloves. Amélie eyes her plain white shirt and leather breeches. In turn, Lena looks up and down her lover’s beautiful figure. 

 

‘Sorry… I know the contrast is a bit much. Between us, I mean. You’re all dolled up for a night of dancing and well, I honestly tried to pick the best stuff, but my hunter’s outfit didn’t seem right for a feast like this and I-’ 

 

‘You worry too much, _ mon trésor _ .’ Amélie waves Lena’s apologies away and takes her coat to hang over a chair of the long wooden table, which is shoved against the castle wall to free up room. 

 

Her lover’s eyes are drawn to that twirling cape once again, and she makes a small disappointed sound as Amélie takes it off to hang over another chair. The Countess also takes off her rapier, laying the blade beside the cape on the table. Lena is sad to see both accessoires go. She doesn’t feel downhearted for long, since now, the deep reds of the Countess’ tailcoat seem to glow in the fire’s light. 

 

She strides to the middle of the room and Lena nervously walks up to her. 

 

‘I had a friend aid me with some preparations… she said she could help by giving us some music.’ Amélie takes a deep breath and says: ‘I hope that she did her job right, otherwise I might have to ask Gabriel to go after her.’ 

 

Lena guesses that she means Sombra, whose magics could sometimes do more harm than good. Then Amélie clears her throat, closes her eyes and taps with her foot on the ground.  _ Thump  _ goes the solid heel of her boot, two sharp claps from her hands follow. From somewhere in the ceiling of the room, a weak, thrilling noise sounds. It sounds like a terribly out of tune violin and sets Lena’s hairs on end. 

 

‘ _ Merde, _ can’t you do anything right?’ The Countess murmurs, clearly irritated. She stomps on the floor again and keeps the rhythm up longer this time. The sound changes. It swells into a true choir of strings and a smile breaks through on Lena’s face as the ballroom comes alive with the music. The high violins soon change into a dark piano melody, and Amélie offers her hand to her lover. ‘Shall we dance,  _ cheríe _ ?’ 

 

It takes Lena a few seconds to stop admiring the music, but then she enthusiastically agrees, taking her beloved’s hand.

 

‘If I recall correctly, nobles waltz like so, right?’ she asks as she places her free hand on Amélie’s hip. 

 

Swaying to the calm rhythm, Amélie chuckles. ‘A bit higher up, actually.’ 

 

She moves Lena’s hand to her waist, so it just touches the silver buttons there. Then she gently nudges Lena’s right foot backwards. As her lover complies, she steps forward, bringing her feet parallel to each other. They have practiced the basic steps twice before, and Amélie can see Lena’s face shift from concentration to relief as she remembers. Left foot forward, then bring the right foot to it. Lean back slightly, cross left back over right and step to the side with right. Lena always stands on her toes when crossing over, perhaps because she can hold on to Amélie slightly better if they’re at more or less the same height. 

 

Amélie is graceful in her every step. Without faltering once, she performs the long strides forward, the smaller steps to the side and twirls Lena around every once in a while. Her boots and Lena’s shoes tap on the ballroom floor in a rhythm entirely their own. As they waltz, Lena stumbles over her own feet at one point, clutching at Amélie’s tailcoat to avoid falling. 

 

Despite how much Amélie likes to feel Lena’s arms around her, she peels the smaller girl off her, laughing softly. When Lena opens her mouth, undoubtedly to apologize, she is silenced with a kiss. A surprised squeak comes out of her mouth, yet she kisses back all the same. Still gently swaying to the waltz, she is surprised when Amélie lets go of her right hand as she ends the kiss. 

 

‘Hands on my shoulders,  _ cheríe _ ,’ the Countess says. 

 

‘Uh-huh.’ 

 

Then, when Lena takes hold of the folds of black fabric, Amélie grabs her by the waist and effortlessly lifts her off the ground. It feels exhilarating. Adrenaline rushes through Lena’s body as she is suspended in her lover’s arms. The vampire has no problems with carrying Lena for a solid minute as she repeats the waltz’s steps. Lena’s heart flutters as Amélie finds the strength to do a few slow turns, all the while keeping her balance with the additional weight of the small woman in her arms. 

 

‘You’re a damn show-off, y’know that?’ she breathes. 

 

At this, Amélie laughs. ‘What fun would there be in a dance, if the partners don’t get to show their skills? Besides, you seem to be enjoying this…’ 

 

Lena has no answer, as content as she is in the Countess’ arms. Seen from above, her lover is perhaps even more beautiful. With her pale skin and golden eyes, perfectly complementing the dark clothing. As the music dies down to woodwinds and a piano, Amélie carefully puts her on the ground again. They stand nose to nose now, and Lena hops up on her toes to press a kiss to Amélie’s cheek. 

 

‘We should do this more often,’ she murmurs while hugging her beloved tightly. 

  
It’s a huge relief to feel Amélie’s body shake softly with laughter. ‘ _ Oui,  _ we should.’  


	3. Waltz of the Witch and the Warchief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One for the Witch and the Warchief  
> For endurance, for revenge  
> With icy prowess and burning rage  
> Theirs is a dance of defiance 
> 
>  
> 
> The mental image of Sylvanas playing a harpsichord/piano just does something to me. I don’t really know how WoW magic works so just pretend alright??
> 
> This fic kinda ran away with me and it ended up being much longer than I intended. Well… now the fics fit the durations of the waltzes I guess.

Jaina follows the tones of the harpsichord, from up in her chambers to down the winding stairs. She wonders who is playing the old instrument, a relic of better times. To her unabashed surprise, she recognizes the figure behind the keys. No hood that cloaks half her face in shadows, no hefty bow in hand and most surprisingly, no gloves. Sylvanas’ eyebrows are drawn into a deep frown as she plays the ivory keys. A saddening melody, at first. Then, with a swift flick of her fingers, the Banshee Queen launches into a louder, sharper melody. She plays this one particularly violently, nearly attacking the harpsichord and breaking its keys.

 

Quietly, Jaina steps closer, careful to not disturb the rare moment of peace. She sees that, underneath the armor and weapons, Sylvanas is a very skinny woman. Elfs have a natural thinness to them, but the years of being undead clearly hadn’t done Sylvanas much good. Her shoulders are slumped and bony, bent over the instrument as she is. And still she is ramming on the keys, loud and shrill. Then she pauses for a moment. Jaina freezes, but she hasn’t been noticed. The Dark Lady is so enraptured in the song. She begins playing anew, a slower melody now. It is nearly a waltz, though broken and fragmented.

 

The gaunt face of Sylvanas has relaxed from her furious expression, and Jaina sees her eyes widen. It is as if the undead elf could barely believe what she was playing. Hesitant and nearly stopping her melody, she strikes new chords and notes. Faster the melody went, and even though she didn’t need to breath, Sylvanas takes a deep breath. Her shoulders shudder and her body sways along to the song. Then she suddenly turns to face Jaina, stopping in the middle of her haunting melody, eyes flashing with anger once again.

 

‘Are we enjoying ourselves, Proudmoore?’

 

Captivated as she had been by the music, Jaina was startled.

 

‘I, eh… c-could you maybe… resume the song?’ she blurts out. In her chest, she already feels regret boiling up. Of course, Sylvanas wouldn’t do that. She had disturbed one of the rare moments of peace that the elf could bring herself to enjoy.

 

As she had predicted, Sylvanas coldly laughs: ‘But of course, Lord Admiral. At your behest, I will continue this elven waltz. As if this rotting instrument isn’t damaged enough.’

 

She shoots a glare at the cracks in the lid of the harpsichord, through which the strings and hammers are showing. Jaina follows her gaze, and as Sylvanas wants to reach for her gloves, lying on top of the instrument, she quickly casts a spell. Ice crystals spread over the wood, closing the gaps. She also opens the lid on top of the harpsichord and supports it with two ice studs.

 

‘They won’t hold forever, perhaps a day or two,’ she quietly informs Sylvanas, and turned to leave. With a sigh and an involuntary shiver, she mentally berates herself for asking such a dumb favor of Sylvanas. And for interrupting a moment of weakness from her partner. Then the Banshee Queen’s metalic voice stops her.

 

‘Why?’

 

‘You were enjoying it,’ Jaina states curtly. Before Sylvanas can hurl another half-insulting question at her, she hurries out of the hall. She needs to gather some books on elven songs. That proves to be more difficult than she had expected. Despite the elven tradition of hoarding information, the only books she can find are catalogues of songs, sorted by composer’s last name and written nearly entirely in Thalassian. Jaina is sure that Sylvanas was mashing several songs together, only remembering the so-called elven waltz in the middle of something else. And Jaina can only recall that the melody started with a large interval from one note to the other. _I fled out of the hall too quickly,_ she thinks. _I should have braved her irritating comments and demanded to hear the song again._

 

She invests in new spells, learning to summon the sounds of an orchestra, in an attempt to figure out what song her partner had been playing. It had been one of the few times where she had seen Sylvanas show some semblance of happiness. And not in her blood-soaked armor on a battlefield at that. Song after song she tries, until the melody has nearly faded from her memory.

 

One evening, when she is bent over the catalogue, murmuring song names and listening for that characteristic big leap between the notes, she hears the door of her quarters open. Sylvanas sometimes walks into her rooms unannounced, for a late night debate or, even more rarely, with an unspoken request for affection. The song is still playing, it’s something with mallets this time. Jaina wonders if she needs to prepare for Sylvanas’ sarcastic comments or for her ability to barge into her private space. She quirks her eyebrows at the elf, asking for the reason of her visit.

 

‘The waltz,’ she gets as a curt answer. ‘It is playing now.’

 

Sylvanas’ lips are set in a tight stripe as she nods at the open book on Jaina’s desk. The spells that the mage wove in the air are playing the music. And Jaina doesn’t recognize it.

 

‘It is?’

 

‘I should have known that you wouldn’t recall how I played it,’ Sylvanas says with a huff of disdain. ‘A waltz, Jaina, is in triple meter. What I did, when you decided to rudely interrupt me, was in common time, akin to many folk dances.’

 

She taps the two meters with the metal tips of her gloves on the wood of Jaina’s door. One-two-three goes the waltz, the other one has four beats.

 

‘I am a mage, Sylvanas, not a minstrel. Though I know how a waltz goes. I danced when I was younger.’

 

‘With who?’ Sylvanas bites at her. The unspoken answer hangs heavy in the air between them. He had been an excellent dancer.

 

She departs as suddenly as she entered, leaving Jaina alone and cold behind her desk. Frustrated, she swipes with her hand through the air, silencing the song. However, mere minutes after her partner left, she puts a tiny dot in front of the name of the song in the book. And as she goes to bed, she hears the harpsichord from the hall below. It’s the same song. Even though Sylvanas is not in the room, she fights the smile that threatens to slip onto her face.

 

Surprisingly, Jaina takes a liking to the song, humming it frequently and memorizing the melody. Eventually, she stops caring about the venomous looks that Sylvanas shoots her when she sings it, even commenting that it would be silly if a song were the thing to break the fragile pact between Alliance and Horde, sealed with their union.

 

And curious as she is, Jaina cannot stop herself from trying to sneak up on Sylvanas when she’s playing on the harpsichord. Her partner frequently hears her coming, tells her to get lost or to stop making “such a terrible amount of noise on those awful slippers”. But as the days since Sylvanas’ impromptu visit lengthen into weeks, she allows Jaina to sit by her and listen as she plays. Her fingers, flying over the keys, are mesmerizing to watch. And so is the softened, nearly content expression on her face. When Jaina’s eyes aren’t drawn to either of those things, she studies the decorations on the instrument. Elegant curls and leaf shapes, in faded gold and silver. She has no doubts about the elven origin of the harpsichord, and wonders where Sylvanas salvaged it from.

 

Late one evening, after a tiring day of war meetings, the two of them are reclining in the hall. Jaina is slowly falling asleep in her chair, the warmth from the fire and the soft music makes her feel more and more drowsy. Then a shrill, dissonant chord shakes her out of the slumber. Sylvanas curses in Thalassian.

 

‘Is there something wrong?’ Jaina asks her.

 

At first, the Warchief doesn’t answer, only staring at the keys in quiet frustration. Then she turns to face her partner and says: ‘This melody… this part, it doesn’t sound right without the flutes.’

 

Jaina is surprised at the defeated tone of her voice and the way she forlornly waves a hand at the instrument. This is a side of Sylvanas that she normally only sees when they have had a particularly awkward meeting with Alliance leaders. The elf stands up from the instrument and prepares to leave for her chambers. Her ears droop downwards in defeat, and Jaina’s heart clenches. She absolutely doesn’t like seeing Sylvanas so sad, thwarted by a melody that she remembers from when she was alive. Without shrugging off the warm cape that she’s wearing, Jaina stands up and nearly runs to the harpsichord. She casts the spell that she has practiced in the safe confines of her chambers. The Thalassian name of the song rolls awkwardly off her tongue, yet the waltz sounds proudly in the hall. At the bottom of the flight of stairs, Sylvanas turns around, to see Jaina smiling encouragingly at her. ‘So, which part of the song has those flutes?’

 

‘Not this song… it’s not a part of the waltz,’ Sylvanas says, still sounding defeated. ‘My sist-… I… I used to play it as an introduction to the waltz, back in Silvermoon… Cast the spell anew, Jaina.’

 

A question, phrased as a command. Jaina removes the arance energy from the air and starts over. This time, Sylvanas speaks the name of the song she is looking for. Immediately, they both recognize the characteristic sound of the harpsichord. Though this time, it is coupled with string instruments. Sylvanas walks to the harpsichord, her ears perk up as she very nearly smiles at the familiar notes. Seamlessly, she copies the melody. After a short time, the harsh strings die down and give way to a solo passage for the harpsichord. Jaina quiets the sounds of her spell slightly, so she can only hear Sylvanas’ instrument. The Warchief’s fingers dance over the keys and she speeds up her phrases. At the end of the melody, the violins join in once more and with them, the soft flutes that Sylvanas spoke about. A smile finds its way onto Jaina’s face as she makes the ascending lines swell louder, until the sound fills the entire hall. A moment later, Sylvanas stops playing. She turns to Jaina.

 

‘Once more, the spell.’

 

This time, she is quick to say the elven name of the waltz. It sounds much better than in Jaina’s broken Thalassian.

 

‘This is where the orchestra sounds better without the harpsichord,’ Sylvanas comments, walking up to the human and looking around in the hall. The acoustics of the building are well suited to the stately waltz. It makes the greyed stone walls and the faded red curtains seem more lively, as if they return to the glory times of Lordaeron.

 

Jaina wonders why Sylvanas has decided to show her how the song is supposed to sound. These moments between the two of them are rare. And in the time that she has known the elf up close, this is by far the liveliest that Sylvanas has been. Immersed in her thoughts, Jaina impulsively asks: ‘Do you want to dance with me, Sylvanas?’

 

Once more, she regrets her question before it’s fully out of her mouth. The blood elf quirks her long eyebrows, giving Jaina perhaps the most condescending glare she has ever recieved. The cello now playing the melody fades to a rush in her ears.

 

‘Do you want to dance with a cold corpse, Jaina?’

 

‘If said cold corpse is you, then yes.’ She is in too far, and will most likely never get an opportunity to enjoy music with her partner quite like the moment they had just shared. To back out is not an option now, so she prevails.

 

The act of honesty surprises Sylvanas, though she is able to erase any evidence of her surprise from her complexion. She then allows Jaina to take hold of her right hand. As Jaina had noticed in those rare moments of compassion between the two of them, her skin is initially cold to the touch. As she holds the elf’s hand, pausing to look at it a moment too long, Sylvanas tries to jerk it out of her grip, but there is no real strength behind her move.

 

Jaina takes in a deep, shuddering breath as Sylvanas sweeps her right leg over the floor. She leans forward, and Jaina must go along. The Warchief is quick to remove Jaina’s hand from where it found its way up to her waist, but doesn’t let go afterwards. They follow the sonore brass in the rhythm of the waltz. The elven elegance with which Sylvanas effortlessly dances surprises Jaina, so much so that she missteps and nearly slips over the cape that she hasn’t taken off still. She is quickly pulled towards her partner, so that they stand nose to nose. Sylvanas slips the cape off her shoulders and throws the garment to the side.

 

‘You dance well for a Kul Tiran,’ she comments. ‘Usually a seafarer knows nothing about the joys of a waltz danced well.’

 

Nearly, Jaina counters her with an offended, stinging comment, but as the songs slows down into a piano solo, she can’t bear it to ruin the moment. Instead, she brings her hands up to Sylvanas’ shoulders, peeling away the armor that her partner always wears. She knows it gives her a secure, safe feeling. And as she predicted, the elf hisses sharply at it, her ears jumping up from their relaxed position.

 

‘Does armor befit the joys of a waltz danced well?’ Jaina quietly whispers, reaching at her partner’s back to take off her chestplate as well.

 

It nearly breaks her heart to see Sylvanas shudder and tense. But it doesn’t stop her. The armor joins the discarded cape, and they resume their dance. Closer together now, in a near embrace. The distress that still shows on Sylvanas’ face prompts Jaina to cup the side of her face, fingers rubbing at the base of her ear. It promptly relaxes, twitching all the way to the tip. It's endearing, how the pair of long ears reflect Sylvanas’ feelings before they show on her face. Jaina can’t take her eyes of them. As the piano plays its solo, dropping several octaves in the process, she reaches up with both hands to give the pair a rub.

 

To this, the rest of the elf relaxes as well, swaying softly to the song. While the closeness limits the movements in their dance, she can feel Jaina’s warmth now that the armor isn’t in the way. It warms her, in a wholly different way that the hearth’s fire does. Thoroughly, as if her heart is beating once more. For a few moments, she allows her eyes to close. She sees an image of a time long passed. Not one Windrunner, but three. No clashing colours of red and blue, but a peaceful spectrum from green trough teal to blue, hands entwined and eyes fixed on just each other. When Sylvanas opens her eyes again, she is greeted by Jaina’s amused look, eyes glowing with arcane. Her lover is still gently stroking her ears, giving them a soft flick at the tips.  

 

‘Stop harassing my ears, Jaina,’ Sylvanas gasps. ‘I know you like them… perhaps more than is necessary, but we do need to finish our dance.’

 

They slowly sway, until the high violins start picking up the pace again. Sylvanas steps to the side, bringing her right arm up and twirling Jaina around as she would have done with her sisters in Silvermoon.

The orchestra swells, the lovers follow. With bigger movements they dance. One arm outstretched, the other tightly on each other’s waists. Sylvanas finds just the right moment to twirl Jaina around again, making her giggle merrily. Then, as the instruments play their last melody, the elf lifts her off the ground effortlessly. She holds Jaina in the crook of her right elbow, fingers digging into her waist. For a good few seconds, Sylvanas keeps up the position. Her eyes seem to smoulder in the soft fire’s light. Gently, she places her partner on the ground again. Jaina is breathless, and notices that her partner is smiling softly, showing just a glimmer of sharp teeth.

 

In her mind, she makes a short list of things to do. To savour the memory of this dance and to renew it every once in a while. Firstly, she decides that she must find someone willing to repair the harpsichord before it falls apart even more. Then she must invest time in dusting off her dancing skills. And perhaps, one day, she and Sylvanas will be able to dance in a better place than the hall of Sylvanas’ residence in the Undercity, on a real feast, and with a  real orchestra to go with it.


End file.
